


fracture

by ichidou



Series: broken glass [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichidou/pseuds/ichidou
Summary: He can't remember which of them is the Meta, sometimes. And Wash isn't sure he wants to.---Season 7 AU: instead of going after Epsilon, Wash and the Meta chase after the Director.





	1. prison.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so fair warning: I'm not even in this fandom anymore. This fic isn't going to be finished. The reason I'm publishing it is because this is the one fic I wish I _had_ actually finished when I was still in the fandom, and I still like what I wrote for it. It's been sitting on my hard drive gathering dust for a couple years, and I think it'd be a shame if that's where it lived for the rest of its days.
> 
> So here it is.
> 
> I came up with this AU in 2012 or so; most of the writing is from around that time and is largely unedited. As best I recall, it was only going to deal with plot elements up to season 10. Anything past that point is disregarded.
> 
> This story is not set in the same continuity as [found in translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1951791) (as that fic follows canon, and this is a canon divergence), but I do consider it the basis for the relationship between Wash and Maine in this AU.

Wash is well used to monotony. He'd grown up with it, in all the years he'd spent in military academies, and twice as much so once he'd enlisted. Prison, though, had put every last boring mission he'd ever been on to shame. It wasn't just that it was boring, it was that there was _nothing to do_. Not for him, anyway, not in the high-security cell they'd put him in.

He gets his meals twice a day, gets let out for exercise and a little fresh air (if he could call any of this air fresh rather than filtered past all recognition), some time to do whatever menial tasks they set him with, but all in all Wash finds the days bleed together.

He's not sure how long he's been here.

He's not sure he wants to know.

It wouldn't be so bad, he thinks, if he wasn't confined to solitary so often — not for his sake, but for his fellow prisoners. He still wakes from nightmares that feel more real than anything he's ever seen in the flesh, his darkest fears made real through the memories still scattered through his brain. Epsilon's still there, if only in scattered fragments, and he's not _real_ — of course he's not real, he can't be real, he's gone and escaped and he's the reason Wash is even here in the first goddamn place — but he's never been able to get rid of Epsilon through will alone, and Wash knows it won't start now.

Some days he wonders why they bother to keep him locked up at all. It's not like he has anywhere to go. Epsilon's gone, taken off to god knows where by those infernal simulation soldiers, and even if he wasn't Wash doesn't know what he'd do with him in this state. His trial had been a joke without the evidence there to back up his claims, and even if Epsilon had been there, Wash knows it was a longshot anyway with how much of a wreck Epsilon was when he was removed.

(It’s not just Epsilon he has rattling around in his head now, even, he’s got Alpha muttering curses in the back of his head, but he can’t think about him, won’t acknowledge what he did, not yet. Not when it had all been for nothing.)

So he's here.

And the problem is, he's _stuck_ here. His sentence hadn't exactly been light, and any hope of parole had gone straight out the window with the very nature of his claims. No, Agent Washington was a liability, one much better kept on a leash than let to roam free. It's always so much easier to tend to those in a cage.

It's not the hardest life, here. It's military, maximum security, and all things considered it could be worse — he could be down with every other deserter serving a sentence or two for their lapses in judgment. Instead, he's given his own room, small and cramped as it is, and they let him have holoscreens sometimes for a little light reading. It's not like he has much else to do.

More than anything, though, Wash knows they keep him close out of curiosity. There'd been no need to give him a jumpsuit or implant the standard tracking device, not when he came with his own set. His armor always causes stares, when he happens across his fellow inmates, but they all know damn well that it's classified even here, and it's not like Wash ever offers anything on the subject. It's bad enough the guards have the protocols for armor lockdown on hand and never show any hesitation to use it.

The worst is target practice.

Because for all his so-called crimes, for all that he's been through, Wash hadn't been able to spare being used one more time, just like fucking always. He's a rare specimen, a _challenge_ , and the guards seem to downright enjoy blowing off steam by shooting at him. Most of them miss, admittedly, given just how quick Wash is, but more than a few had dinged his armor, and whatever complaints he's had have fallen on deaf ears.

So much for _classified special equipment_.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, and he still doesn't _want_ to know, but he wonders, sometimes. His sentence had been long enough that hope as a lost cause from day one, and even if it's not a life sentence he's not sure just how long he can last in here. He tries to keep himself together, tries to hold onto what sanity he has left, but it's always hard after a nightmare, and worse when the memories flood back to the surface. He can keep in control of himself — he's _always_ been able to keep in control, always, he doesn't falter, he doesn't back down — but in the quiet darkness of his cell, Wash can't help but give into fear, now and then, the kind that grips him and doesn't let go until he bends to it.

He's surviving. He always survives. But this time, he doesn't know how long he'll be able to make it. Not in one piece, anyway.

Not until he gets the call.

It's so obvious in hindsight that Wash has to resist the urge to give himself a solid punch to the head or just bash his skull against the nice cold walls of his cell for a while. Of _course_ Caboose took it. Of course Caboose _took_ it— and of course he'd been dumb enough to keep from getting found in the meantime. It's just unbelievable enough that Wash knows damn well it's true. God knows the simulation soldiers had always had a knack for finding the worst possible solution to a problem.

But it's a chance. It's a _lead_. And maybe it's a long shot to use it to bargain his way out of here, but Wash doesn't care.

He has a purpose again.


	2. equipment.

Equipment, he'd said.

Wash knows they wouldn't have given him his E.M.P. back, no, because god forbid the Chairman risk his precious fucking evidence, but he'd expected— well, _something_. A cloak, maybe. Overshields. A _healing unit_ , for god's sake.

The Meta falls rather firmly under "none of the above."

Wash knows he'd been caught. They'd _both_ been caught, without the slightest chance of escape, because the E.M.P. hadn't just taken out the A.I. — it'd taken out every last piece of electronics in the vicinity, including their armor. They'd been trapped in armor lock for a good hour, waiting to be found, waiting for—

Well. Wash had thought it was absolution, then. Funny how things turn out.

He hasn't seen the Meta since, though. He'd been locked up just as securely, of course, but the guards had never risked him wandering the halls. When he was moved at all, it was under strict guard, and they didn't hesitate to keep him in armor lock if he so much as flinched.

Wash wonders if they'd sent shrinks, the way they had for him. Probably not, he thinks. They don't think he's still human.

 _(_ what do you think, david? _)_

He doesn't know.

The Chairman hadn't accompanied him down here. Too scared, probably, no matter how thick the doors were, or how absolute the paralysis of armor lock was. No, he'd never dare come this close. It had never been his style — he wrote letters, he made phone calls, he _oversaw_ , but never came close enough to touch.

Project Freelancer would have ended long ago if he had, anyway. And maybe neither of them would be here in the first place.

Or maybe things would have turned out just the same. Wash doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to.

The gold visor's just as empty as it's ever been. There's a face beneath, Wash knows, but he's not sure if it's one he recognizes. When it comes to think about it, he's not sure when the last time he even saw the Meta's face was. Back in Freelancer, of course, before he'd been the Meta at all, but Wash's memories of those last few months are still so muddled that it's hard to piece together what's real and what's just one of his delusions.

(Or maybe they were one and the same, back then.)

There's a man beneath the armor, Wash knows — or thinks, anyway. He's locked up in here like an animal, caged and bound, and though there's no way in hell Wash would have _chosen_ the Meta for this, he can see the benefits. He's still the strongest fucking man Wash has ever seen. He's still got the equipment, Wash had been told, it's just disabled, and barely functional otherwise without any A.I. to run it. He's the deadliest soldier Project Freelancer had ever produced, more so than Tex had ever been — because Tex had never left such a body count in her wake.

He's not equipment. He's a human weapon.

_but then, we all were._

Wash glances to the side. For months, the soldiers have all but sneered at him for the slightest glances, mocking him with every invisible look. They talk about him behind his back, he knows, because they talk about _everyone_. They're all lacking for entertainment around here. Now, though— now, they just look terrified, no matter how much they try to hide it. It doesn't matter one bit that the Meta can't move a muscle, that he's trapped in his corner. He's still _there_ , just as impossible to ignore as he's always been. Some of the Freelancers had found it easy to slip into the shadows, to not be seen until they were meant to, but not Maine. Never Maine.

And certainly not the Meta.

The Meta can't move his head more than a few inches, and he hadn't bothered when they'd let Wash in, no more than he had to to look over the other soldier. Once, Wash had been able to read every expression that ever flicked across his face without ever needing to see it, but it's so blank now that he's not sure if the Meta even knows he's there until he growls.

It's a short, guttural noise, the sound of a man who doesn't have words anymore, but Wash understands it loud and clear.

_What do they want._

_Us_ , Wash thinks. _They want us._

The soldier next to him shivers again, armor rattling, but Wash ignores him and takes a step forward. The visor tips up, and there's no question that the Meta is looking him over — but whether as an adversary or an ally, Wash can't say.

"Ah, Ag— Agent Washington," the guard at the door stutters, a hand going to his helmet. "The, uh, the Commander wants to know if this is— enough."

"It's enough," Wash replies.

He doesn't have to see the Meta's face to know he's raising an eyebrow. Wash takes another step forward, his own gaze not wavering for a moment. "Made a deal," he says, keeping his tone as even as he can. "There's someone out there who took something I need. Something we _both_ need. You agree to help me find it, and they let us both out."

The sound this time is a snarl, and though there's no real words to it, Wash can understand the sentiment well enough. The Meta doesn't want to be let out on a leash, made into nothing more than a chained dog, and surely nothing _Wash_ could want would be enough for him.

Wash shakes his head, once.

"I know where Epsilon is."

Silence, and—

_Yes._

Wash doesn't need any more than that.


	3. heading.

Meta hasn't asked, yet.

Wash knows he will. He'd followed orders back in Freelancer, sure — the spirit of them, anyway, if not the actual letter. He'd done as he was told, _when_ he was told, and he'd never thought too much about who or what their target was. It wasn't his style, and never had been. 

All he'd ever needed was direction.

But this is different. This is _personal_ , in ways Wash can't quite fathom just yet. This is more than a mission for both of them, for entirely opposite reasons, and yet Wash knows it won't bring either of them absolution.

If anything, the fact that Meta hasn't asked means that he's thinking. About what, Wash can only imagine, but no matter what his mind conjures up none of the options are good. Maybe Meta's thinking about how best to kill him, Wash thinks, maybe he's just waiting for a good solid bump in the road to reach over and choke him to death. It's not like Wash had ever been able to overpower him. The E.M.P. was a failsafe and a testament to Wash's wits, no more — when it comes to pure strength, Wash knows he's never stood a chance.

And Meta knows it. Wash doesn't need to hear his growls to know that much. The Meta knows damn well who he's been paired with, and for what reason. They can work together, sure, if they've got themselves a common goal like this. They can pretend to be allies, even. But Wash is no more than a means to an end, for Meta, just as Wash has no intention of turning his back on him for a moment.

They're inches apart, but they couldn't be further away.

Wash flicks his wrist, shifting the gears, and lets himself relax back into the seat as they head down an empty, barely paved road. He'd been given a little more than just the Meta, at least. They'd been granted their own Warthog, a sizable cache of ammo, and even a rocket launcher, should they find the need to use it. The Meta only cares about that blade of his, though, and Wash had been relieved when it had gotten tossed into the back of the jeep with the rest instead of kept up front. It's not like he wants to make it any _easier_ for the Meta to slice his throat.

Maybe Meta won't even bother asking, Wash thinks. Maybe he'll just wait until nightfall, wait until they set up camp, and find a nice rock to crack Wash's head open with. Or maybe he'll do it with his bare hands, the same way he'd killed Carolina— one large hand curled around his throat, squeezing tight as he rips the last pieces of metal from his skull.

Or worse, maybe he'll be spared again.

Wash glances over at the passenger side of the car. He'd hated driving with him, once. Maine was a terrible driver, so much so that no one could last more than a few minutes with him behind the wheel without getting sick. He'd never had any care for the rules of the road, much less the right of way, and Wash had seen more than his fair share of wrecks in Maine's wake. Even when he'd been kicked to the side or the back, Maine would always bitch, wordless or not, about how bored he was, how much he wished he had _something_ to do instead of just sitting there, and he'd fidget so much Wash would have to fight the urge to elbow him every time he started.

The Meta is silent. There are twitches — ripples across his body, like he's reacting to some unseen stimuli, but he only moves when he has a need to, and the rest is spent in such utter stillness that Wash would wonder if he's still alive in there if he couldn't hear him breathing. Even that is slow and measured, barely audible. He's like a hunter perched in the deepest brush, waiting for his target to emerge from hiding, and when he does—

Wash knows he doesn't stand a chance.

Except Wash is still alive, and the Meta hasn't shown the slightest sign of intending to attack. He's good at stalking his prey, Wash knows, from how goddamn long he'd followed after him, but this is different. This is freedom, this is the chance to escape the chains that had bound the both of them, and Meta hadn't taken it. Not in the two hours they'd been out on the road, not back in the compound when they'd been set free, not even now. And maybe—

No. There's no maybe. Wash knows how this will end up.

The question is how long it'll take.

It takes a good few seconds for Wash to process the sound that comes from the other side of the jeep as a grunt, and twice as long for him to process what it means. He flinches despite himself, enough to earn a half-snort, and Wash casts Meta another glance, grip tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel.

_Where?_

Maine had never been loquacious, but he'd turned brevity into an art form after his injury, one that only Wash had ever mastered. The other agents often tried to puzzle out the meanings behind his growls long after Maine had grown tired of waiting, and even after Sigma became his translator Maine hadn't had much to say. (He wonders, now, just how much Sigma ever said _was_ Maine's at all, if he'd simply taken root and spread until he was too much to control, but there's no way to know, now, and he sure as hell isn't going to _ask_.)

Over time, Maine had learned how to turn even the most complex of queries into its most basic parts, speaking less through sound and more through body language, and though it's been years since Wash used these particular skills, he's never quite forgotten.

"Abandoned base," Wash replies, letting his foot settle more firmly on the pedal. "Twelve klicks out. We'll be there just after sundown."

_Destination?_

"Valhalla."

Meta snorts. Wash wonders if he's thinking about the last time he'd been there — when he'd added not one but three more AI to his collection, each one stronger than the last. Omega had twisted the others, he's sure, and Gamma had made it that much easier for him to evade pursuit, but Tex—

Wash lets the thought stop there.

_Easy._

Wash can't find it in him to disagree. The simulation soldiers are barely what he'd call _targets_. Annoyances, more like, or just bugs buzzing in his ear about the most inane things. They won't be difficult to dispatch, and so long as they haven't moved the damn thing, it'll take no time at all to recover Epsilon.

"Probably," Wash says, letting his gaze fall back on the road.

But then what?


	4. decision.

The question sticks with him long past the drive, past dinner, past the silence that settles upon the both of them. There's no real need to keep watch — should someone be unlucky enough to come across them, they'd be in for a world of pain, and Wash knows he needs to restore his strength enough as it is. The rations they'd been given were worth more than every last bullet, Wash thinks. He never thought he'd miss MREs, but after months of prison food, there had been no sweeter taste.

Meta's in another room. Wash hadn't bothered to ask which one. Part of him wonders if Meta will simply wander off, maybe leave Wash stranded out here, but he can't see the point of it. For all that the Meta is the most dangerous man he's ever known, Wash knows what the echo of A.I. feels like all too well. The Meta had had Delta, and more than briefly — he'd given him the time to sink in, to assimilate with the rest of his brothers. It's not something Meta could just shake loose.

The question is, what is he going to do with it?

They can make it to Valhalla. That much isn't a question. The issue that keeps circling around Wash's head is the _after_. What happens when they do get Epsilon? Meta won't let him hand it over to the Chairman without a fight, Wash knows, he's not fucking _stupid_ , but it's hard to say what would happen no matter which way it goes. Even if he does hand over Epsilon, Wash knows he won't be let off scot-free, no matter what the Chairman had promised. It's not the way he works. It'd be another mission, another objective, until he could wring every last bit of use out of him — and then likely throw him right back in jail.

And if Meta takes Epsilon first, Wash supposes it won't matter. He's not a match for the Meta now, with the two of them as battered and bruised as they are. With an A.I. to power his suit and equipment — with _Epsilon_ — he'd be unstoppable.

Wash can't help but wonder why none of his options are any better than the last.

It's a suicide mission, honestly. Maybe that's why the Chairman let them out. If they succeed, he's got himself a great boon to his investigation, and if they don't, it's not like they're any great loss. They'd already been forgotten in prison, names locked behind classified databases. They'd simply vanish all over again.

Great. So he’s fucked either way.

So then, is he going to go along with it?

* * *

The funny thing is, that single question ends up digging deep into his mind and sticking there. It’s not one he can just let go, because that itself is a decision. If he decides to go along with this and play the Chairman’s game, Wash knows he’s walking into a world of risk and danger. There’s every chance that the Meta will turn on him the second they find Epsilon. There’s little chance he’ll actually get the freedom he wants if he goes down this path. Why should he even fucking bother?

Of course, it’s not like he’s had any other brilliant ideas about what to do. He can’t exactly run away. The Meta will come for him after he gets Epsilon. It’s because of Wash he’s without his A.I. in the first place; it’s only this situation that’s kept him from getting killed so far. Wash might make it for a while, but he has no illusions about outrunning the Meta. Not after what he saw him do to all the other Freelancers.

Besides, where would he even go? There’s nowhere left for him, and nothing left for him to do besides. Maybe Epsilon _is_ the only thing left. The only way he can get closure. Get him, and maybe he can put an end to all this, the way he tried to do with the E.M.P.

Wait — the E.M.P. Wash’s eyes widen. Epsilon _isn’t_ the only thing left out there.

The Director’s still out there too.

They didn’t tell him much, in prison, but he caught bits and pieces on the news ticker, censored as it was. Mostly it was Grifball scores, but every now and then he’d see an update about the war, or negotiations with the Elites, and just once, he caught sight of a certain headline about how the manhunt for Dr. Church was continued and ongoing.

Why was the Chairman even sending them out after _Epsilon_ if they still didn’t have the Director in custody? What was the point of getting an _A.I._ when the person responsible for all the atrocities in the first place was still out there?

Wash could do it. He could find him. He could take him down and make him pay for everything he’d ever done. Make him pay for all of the Freelancers. Make him pay for the Alpha.

 _(_ for tex for allison for me _)_

Wash stands up. He has to leave now, before the Meta knows what’s happening. If he can take the Warthog and put enough distance between them it won’t matter what he does, not right away. If Meta catches up to him later he’ll... he’ll deal with it then.

This is something he has to do.


	5. lie.

Wash makes it all the way down to the Warthog and is about to climb in the driver’s seat when he remembers one crucial detail: there’s no fucking way this jeep isn’t bugged.

This might be a suicide mission as far as the Chairman’s concerned, but he also didn’t actually ask them to send him progress updates. That means the jeep’s bugged, and that lovely little ammo cache they got back is probably loaded up with trackers too. Wash swears under his breath and climbs out of the jeep. He knows what to look for — hell, he used to _set_ trackers on jeeps back when he worked on the fucking Recovery force — and he feels like a rookie for not thinking about it until right now.

Sure enough, there’s a tracking device clipped beneath the jeep, right next to the front wheel, and a secondary one underneath the passenger seat. Wash tosses both in the passenger seat for now. He’ll deal with them later, maybe drive into a river on purpose or something. These things are waterproof but he hasn’t lived this long without learning how to bullshit.

Next are the ones in the weapons. He pops off the base of the battle rifle he’s been carrying around and sure enough there’s another tracker hidden at the bottom. Wash tosses it into the pile and finds another in his magnum before moving to the ammo cache in the back of the jeep. He’s gotta be quick about this, quick and quiet so he doesn’t alert the Meta or else he’s never going to get out of here alive.

He doesn’t even make it halfway through the pile of weapons before he realizes the Meta is standing behind him.

Wash turns around, still holding a pistol. The Meta is holding his weapon, blade out, but he’s not aiming it at Wash’s head just yet. He’s just standing there _staring_ , faceplate painfully blank, and he doesn’t say a single fucking word. He doesn’t even have to. Wash feels like he’s been caught red-handed. He doesn’t even know how long Meta was standing there. He didn’t see a blip on his motion tracker.

Wash swallows. Explanations come to his lips — lies — but they all fall away at the blankness of the Meta’s stance. The shift from Maine to Meta had been abrupt and he hadn’t been there when it happened, but it was all in how _empty_ Meta was, compared to how expressive Maine had been. For all that he never spoke Maine had never hesitated to let you know exactly how he was feeling, even if that meant punching you in the face or slapping you on the back so hard your ribs shook. He laughed and he grinned and he snarled and balled his fists and kicked things.

Meta does none of those things. When Wash first saw the Meta it had been hard to believe it was _Maine_ not because of the armor but because he moved like a robot was pulling the strings. Which, of course, was true.

But even now that the A.I. are gone it doesn’t mean that _Maine_ is back. Wash knows that damn well. Has since the moment he saw him in the prison cell. He still moved like a robot then, only now there was a human behind the controls. A frighteningly intelligent human with only one goal: to get back what he used to have.

Meta stands there and stares at him and Wash knows that he’s not even going to make it out of this room. He’s not going to get the Director. Meta’s just going to fucking kill him and they both know it.

Wash lowers the pistol he was holding, his grip faltering. The gesture seems to be enough to interest the Meta and he tilts his head at Wash, finally asking the question that’s been held in silence between them this entire time.

_What are you doing?_

Breathe. Breathe, Wash. You’re not gonna die. You’re gonna make it out of this. Right, sure he fucking is. Wash allows himself about three seconds to pull his shit together. “We’re not going after Epsilon,” he says. “We’re going after the Director.”

There’s no _I_ anymore. The Meta will not leave him behind unless _he_ decides to. Which, Wash is quite happy to let him, but he’s not holding his breath. He knows he’s Meta’s ransom note. That means he’s royally fucked here.

Meta doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t even growl at him. If this were Maine, Wash would read it as a _you’re a fucking idiot_ but it’s much harder to read the Meta, especially like this. Instead he keeps talking because that’s the only way he’s getting out of this alive.

“Epsilon is just— a gamble. A last resort. The Chairman is grasping at strings sending us out after him and he expects us to get killed in the process.” Meta doesn’t react. He already knows this. Unlike Wash, though, he doesn’t care. “If we turn Epsilon back in — they’ll never just let us go. They’ll just keep using us. If we _don’t_ turn him in—” and at this he gives Meta a pointed look, because it’s not like it wasn’t Meta’s plan in the first place, “they’ll just hunt us down and kill us.”

At this Meta huffs. _Kill you_.

Wash winces behind his helmet. This is unfortunately likely. He’s a poor match for Meta as it stands right now and with an A.I. — even one as broken as Epsilon — Meta would destroy him. The same goes for the UNSC. Wash wouldn’t last against their forces, while Meta might stand a chance. It’s depressing, really, how this is what their lives have come to, but it makes him all the more desperate _not_ to see it happen.

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to avoid that,” Wash mutters.

Meta looks at him for a moment, and then, without warning, he moves. He slams Wash against the back of the jeep, pinning him down, and Wash struggles against him for only a second before the sharp blade of the Meta’s weapon presses against his throat. Wash goes still.

Meta tilts his head at him. _Are you?_

This is it, then. This is the part where the Meta kills him and goes off to find Epsilon himself. At least Wash will be able to say he tried.

Why _has_ he even been trying all this time? He got out of prison just to keep doing the same shit that got him in there in the first place. He’s never going to find freedom. He’s never going to get out of this bullshit. If he really wanted out he should have shot Meta in the head the second they got in the jeep and driven to the nearest spaceport and sold what he could for fare to the furthest planet. But he didn’t, and he won’t, because Agent _fucking_ Washington still has that _goddamn_ sense of _duty_ that landed him with a crazy A.I. in his head in the first place.

Fuck this.

Wash surges against Meta’s grip. He can’t break it — Maine was always bigger and stronger than him and Meta’s got a strength enhancement so he’s doubly fucked — but he’s not just going to lie down and take it. “Yeah, I _am_ ,” Wash snarls back. “The Director is our ticket _out_. We get him, we’re done with _all_ of this. We _both_ get what we want.”

Meta tilts his head back, just enough for Wash to read it as curiosity. The kind of curiosity that’s gonna get Wash killed. _What does he have?_

“He’s got— an experimental A.I.,” Wash says. “It wasn’t in storage with all the others. It’s a special project he kept apart from everything else. I remember bits and pieces from Epsilon. We find the Director, and it’s all yours.”

It’s a lie, one he weaves out of nothing but fucking _desperation_ and the fact that he is done with all this bullshit and has been for years, but once he says it — well, it’s probably true, isn’t it? There’s no way the Director fucked off somewhere and didn’t keep working on an A.I. If he’s got some stronghold somewhere that’s kept the UNSC from finding him, there’s a damn good chance it’s because he’s still working on his precious life’s work.

The Meta stares at him, judging, considering. Wash says nothing, letting him think it over. If he adds anything now it’ll sound like he’s trying to sell it. Like a fabrication. He needs Meta to believe him.

Part of him still wants Meta to reject it, and go after Epsilon instead, but the truth is that he does need Meta’s help to find the Director, especially if they’re turning against the UNSC. He can’t fight them off alone. And for all the Meta is a liability... he remembers what Maine used to be. He could be a good partner again.

Finally the blade lowers. Meta releases Wash and drops him against the Warthog. Wash is a little sore from being pinned there for so long, but there’s no lasting damage. He looks up at the Meta.

Meta growls, long and low. There is no question to its meaning.

_The A.I. is mine._

“Deal,” Wash says. “So long as you leave the Director to me.”

Meta nods.

They have an agreement.


End file.
